


The Lonely Garden of London

by Adaris



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: All I have is a lot of botanical websites in my browser history, Astral Projection, Canonical Character Death, Do you like reading about Elias being a dumb idiot and suffering? You won't BELIEVE what I've got, Elias Discovers He Is Not Actually Aromantic as Previously Assumed, Flower Symbolism and Blood, Goes right up to the Watcher's Crown, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt/Comfort (ish), Hurt/More Hurt, I Rag on a Very Expensive Piece of Artwork in the Museum of Fine Arts (Boston), M/M, Manipulation, Not-Enemies to Not-Lovers, Other characters show up but this is primarily about two old gay men, Peter Lukas' Heather Grey Eyes, hardcore pining, i have no excuses for this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 23:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21887722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adaris/pseuds/Adaris
Summary: "I would love to accompany you." Elias offered him a wonderfully warm smile. "I know a Thai restaurant in the center of London that would be absolutely perfect.""Ah, the center of London, you say?" Peter was starting to look more and more like a fresh croissant—flaky as hell.Elias went to put his coat on, half-expecting Peter to vanish again as he was so fond of doing. But instead he helped Elias with his coat, like a gentleman, which was unsettling on many levels. Of course, Elias couldn’t let him catch on to that. "Thank you, dearest. I trust the location won't be a problem for you?""For you, anything," Peter said with a smile, almost shy. "Shall we?"Playing into Elias' hands again. But looking at his expression, the delicate blush on Peter’s cheeks—were they really just playing?
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas
Comments: 6
Kudos: 92





	The Lonely Garden of London

**Author's Note:**

> **Hanahaki disease** is a disease which causes flowers grow in the patient's lungs when they love someone who does not love them back. Common symptoms include coughing up blood and/or flower petals, fatigue, and pining. There are two ways in which Hanahaki disease can be cured: when the patient's object of affection returns their love, or if the flowers are surgically removed (however, this causes the patient's feelings for and potentially memories of their love to disappear). If the disease is not treated, death generally occurs within a year of diagnosis. If you think you have Hanahaki disease, call your GP immediately.

"Gosh, you look busy. Would be a shame to interrupt you." Peter draped his cool arms over Elias' shoulders and pressed a cold kiss to Elias' neck. It had been three months since he'd last stopped by.

"Hello to you too." Elias didn't look up from his computer.

"I was thinking that you and me could—"

"—That _you and I_ —"

"Elias, please let me finish; that you and _I_ could get dinner? Or make dinner, like last time?"

"Unfortunately, I'm occupied this evening."

That just seemed to egg him on. "Music to my ears, darling."

"I'm serious. I will be very busy." Elias shrugged off Peter's touch.

"I'll spirit you away myself, and then you won't have anything to do at all." Peter sat on the edge of Elias' desk, purposefully trying to catch his eye. Peter did have such lovely heather-grey eyes, like a misty morning in Scotland—

Elias Looked at Peter. Saw every nautical mile he'd crossed in the salt spray on his coat, saw the places he'd visited, saw what he'd done in his cabin at night thinking only of Elias. Just a taste, really.

Peter rebuffed him gently, a wave of static and blurring images that gave Elias a headache. "That's not very nice."

"Get out of my archives. Come back in another three months, if at all."

"Hm, that does have its own appeal. We'll see." Peter receded into the shadows, leaving a lingering chill in the otherwise warm archives.

Despite himself, Elias really didn’t mind his visits. They were interesting, at the very least, and they offered a window into the world of the Lonely, one the Eye so rarely saw. It was almost… fascinating.

Elias was particularly fond of the way Peter was so wonderfully stupid—the young fool genuinely believed he'd outsmarted Elias every single time they made a bet. Then again, those with the Lonely always had a hard time seeing the big picture.

Elias didn't feel anything more than a passing disappointment as Peter failed to show up for the next six months.

Certainly didn't miss him, not at all. That would be ridiculous. Peter was nothing special. There were countless people exactly like him throughout history, and Elias had traded snarky comments and late-night dinners with many of them.

So it was natural that he’d assumed he had a cold. (Avatars like him did not get colds.)

"Nasty cough you have there, Elias," Peter commented. He'd appeared behind the door like some kind of childhood nightmare, mist clinging to his clothes. The beard had grown out significantly, but it had a kind of rough-around-the-edges rustic charm—

"It's nothing." Elias scowled at the perceived weakness.

Peter shook his head. "So you aren't about to fade tragically away of consumption like a young heroine in a romantic novel?"

"No."

"Excellent! Then what do you say to a little midnight mischief?" he offered, as if Elias were a blushing teen on his first date and Peter were the only boy in town with a car.

Elias barely suppressed a sigh. "It's eight-thirty."

"But I know how much you love alliteration." Peter blinked his heather eyes at Elias (he did have long eyelashes, didn't he), expecting to be rejected again. Craving it, even.

Now that was interesting. Peter so rarely wanted anything aside from being left alone, but now that Elias knew he wanted to be purposefully scorned as well… he took his time logging off of his computer, and then he said, "Alright."

"What?" Peter's eyes widened in surprise.

"I would love to accompany you." Elias offered him a wonderfully warm smile. "I know a Thai restaurant in the center of London that would be absolutely perfect."

"Ah, the center of London, you say?" Peter was starting to look more and more like a fresh croissant—flaky as hell.

Elias went to put his coat on, half-expecting Peter to vanish again as he was so fond of doing. But instead he helped Elias with his coat, like a gentleman, which was unsettling on many levels. Of course, Elias couldn’t let him catch on to that. "Thank you, dearest. I trust the location won't be a problem for you?"

"For you, anything," Peter said with a smile, almost shy. "Shall we?"

Playing into Elias' hands again. But looking at his expression, the delicate blush on Peter’s cheeks—were they really just playing? Pieces in a game?

Elias shook away the thought. Of course it was just a game; the Lonely would never allow for it to become anything more.

In the end, they had a lovely meal.

Peter kept the worst of the crowds away by virtue of his affiliation, and the generally crowded restaurant soon became pleasantly empty. It gave Elias plenty of time to devote to watching Peter. Really get to know him.

But no matter how much Elias poked and prodded, Peter refused to vanish. And at the end of the night, he walked Elias back home and said, "I'll be seeing you, darling."

"You know where to find me."

Peter vanished into the misty streets of London, but Elias could have sworn his smile lingered.

"Idiot," he said with just the barest hint of fondness. Elias coughed suddenly, covering his mouth with his hand rather than his handkerchief. Something landed in his palm, and when he pulled away to look, still coughing, he found a small pink petal.

What the fuck?

He hurried inside, and whenever he coughed, more petals appeared, and it _couldn't_ be. How embarrassing for him if it were true!

In this day and age of admiring celebrities from afar, cases of what in his day had been called ‘impromptu educations in floriculture’ (today known as Hanahaki disease) were becoming more common. These people were generally fodder for the Lonely. But he wasn't the kind of person who would get that disease. He had lived for two hundred years and never fallen in love—the dalliances of his youth could hardly be considered great romances. Much in the way Jon did not fuck, Elias did not love. It wasn't something he ever felt the need to do, and he still didn't, so this had to be some kind of mistake. Proximity to Peter must have done it; being so close to a source of the Lonely could hardly be _good_.

Elias dumped the petals on his kitchen counter for inspection. Perhaps yellow carnations for disdain? Basil for hate?

Closer examination revealed three different species: blue forget-me-nots, pink camellias, and tiny white yarrow flowers. It was unusual for a person to have more than one type, but not unheard of. Must be more of Peter's influence.

But when he thought of the flowers' meaning—remembrance, missing someone, everlasting love… 

Elias swept the petals into the bin and tried to forget about them, but it only got worse from there.

After a month, he could barely go the length of a conversation without more petals making an appearance. To avoid leaving any evidence in the office, he swallowed them rather than spit them out. He took to avoiding the archival assistants, and particularly the Archivist himself. It was to all of their benefit, anyway. They had to plan their disruption of the Unknowing, and they got more work done when they weren't constantly watching out for him. As if they could ever truly escape.

Jon fleeing to America also had its advantages; he was getting more powerful, which was good in some respects, but also, Elias loathed the idea of anyone noticing his condition, and Jon was far too good at noticing things now. 

The only danger was Peter noticing—the very thought made his skin crawl. At least he tended to stay away, to the point where Elias could almost believe he wasn’t going to come back.

But, likely just to be contrary, Peter visited just over three months later, emerging coyly from behind a potted ficus in a burst of wintry air.

"You still have that cold?" he asked without preamble.

"Yes," Elias admitted. He knew his voice sounded rougher, too, but Peter didn’t comment on it.

"Hm. I think you need a break from all this doubtlessly fascinating work. What do you think about visiting a museum?"

Elias was so offended that he started coughing in surprise; petals filled his mouth, and he swallowed them hastily. "A _museum_? I’ve been to every museum in London and contributed to most of them. I do hope you have something more engaging than that in mind."

"What about an American museum? The Museum of Fine Arts in Boston?"

"How would we—ah," Elias said as mist rolled in from nowhere, tugging him towards the Lonely.

"I keep the boat for aesthetic purposes more than anything else, darling." Peter leaned against Elias' desk and gave him a flirtatious smile. "What do you say?"

The flowers in Elias' chest seemed to grow, sinking their roots in deeper as he said, "I think I could enjoy that." He slid his hand on top of Peter’s, warm against cool.

"Wonderful." Peter took Elias' hand and pressed a kiss to it, as in the centuries of old. "Shall we?"

Elias let Peter lead him into the Lonely, knowing that it would feel strange. Which it did. He couldn’t see anything, practically discorporated, where was everyone, the Eye—and then it was over. Peter's hand was a comfortingly cool weight, anchoring him to the rest of the world.

"I hope that wasn’t too unpleasant for you."

"Not at all." Elias linked his arm with Peter's and didn't enjoy the closeness whatsoever, not even a bit.

They had appeared inside the museum, in some kind of central glass atrium, he presumed. Being so close to Peter meant that no one had noticed their arrival, even though there were a fair number of people milling about.

"Oh. That's new. And that's also new," Peter commented, surveying the museum. "I do enjoy new museum wings, but I think the giant neon green glass tree is a little ostentatious."

"Dale Chihuly is extremely well-respected in the art community," Elias said sharply. "Although this particular piece is very… green. And tall."

Peter laughed and bumped his shoulder against Elias'. "You don't like it, I can tell."

"Hm." Elias grumpily led them towards the new wing of ancient American art. At least there was something about stolen artifacts that both he and Peter could appreciate.

He tried to stop himself from coughing discretely, but he was starting to think Peter knew what was happening. Could he sense it, through his connection to the Lonely?

While they walked, arm in arm, it was easier to watch Peter’s reactions, but harder to hide the leaves and petals creeping up his throat, like Peter was the sun and they were starving for light.

Elias was getting maudlin.

They made it a whole fifteen minutes before the physical exertion caught up with him. The next time he coughed, he knew he wouldn’t be able to hide the flowers.

Peter gave him a concerned look as he ducked into another room, covering his mouth with a handkerchief that was getting soaked with blood as he coughed. He leaned against the wall, chest heaving, spitting up petals and the occasional leaf as he wheezed.

"Are you alright—Elias!" Peter grabbed Elias’ shoulder. "Hey, breathe, just breathe, it’s okay." He pressed a hand to Elias’ back, warm and reassuring.

The flowers loved it.

Elias gasped in pain as they tangled in his lungs, coughing even harder. But he couldn’t let any of the petals out, he couldn’t let Peter _see_.

"Come here, sit down." Peter helped him sit on the floor. "Breathe."

He scowled and covered his mouth with a handkerchief, because like hell was he getting anything on his clothes. He would have loved to melt into the floor.

"Wait, is that _blood_?" Peter grabbed Elias’ handkerchief, spilling sticky flowers on the floor. "Oh."

Elias turned away, his face burning red-hot, and he wordlessly snatched the piece of fabric away.

"Elias—"

"Don’t," he tried to growl, but he really couldn’t manage it between coughs.

Peter was genuinely speechless, his violet-grey eyes looking anywhere except at Elias. After a moment, he very gently wrapped an arm around Elias’ shoulders and, when Elias didn’t pull away, pulled him close in reassuring silence.

 _Fuck him_ , Elias thought dizzily, snuggling into Peter’s arms. His coughs died down into pained wheezes, and he closed his eyes, trying to breathe properly.

"Excuse me, is he alright?"

"Yes, fine." Peter’s grip on Elias tightened. Protectively?

"I can call someone—"

" **No.** "

Elias tasted sea salt, and he grabbed Peter’s hand, trying to remind him that vanishing museum workers was rather gauche, all things considered.

" **Leave us alone.** "

Given that the person did not immediately discorporate, Elias counted it as a win. Although he’d have to make sure they never contacted the Usher Foundation.

"Don’t worry, darling, your secret is safe. I’m ever so good at keeping secrets." Peter cuddled Elias, and he really was quite comfortable with his large, soft sweater, pudgy stomach, and the sweet scent of pine needles and rain shadow, really very—very—horrible, of course. He hated it.

Elias extricated himself from Peter’s embrace. What a despicable creature.

"Feeling better?"

"Yes," Elias rasped. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Yes."

While they walked through the rest of the museum, slower this time, barely inches from the other, Peter kept one hand in Elias’ jacket pocket.

It didn’t mean anything. Most of the time, they didn’t even look at each other. When they stopped for a small, disappointing scone at the museum café, they looked at the giant spiky tree in the center atrium instead.

At the end of the evening, which was still mid-afternoon in America, Peter returned to the _Tundra_ in a swirl of static, leaving Elias alone outside his flat without even a good-night. Typical. He returned inside, the carpet tugging at his feet.

The loneliness swelled inside of him, and he doubled over, gagging as the petals he’d swallowed forced their way back up. He staggered to the sink and clawed his way free of his body. He watched as whatever collection of impulses and instincts remained hacked up mouthfuls of bloodstained petals. Resisting the pull back was easy, but only for now. Much more and he’d be hard pressed to stay outside.

But it wouldn’t get to that point, because _he didn’t love Peter_. That ridiculous creature, with his pretty eyes and overblown gestures and mist. All the fucking mist. They were opposites, not meant for one another in the slightest—their patrons were practically enemies!

Elias drifted sullenly back to his body. Of all the unfair things.

The instant he settled in properly, pain shot through his chest.

"I’ll kill that ephemeral fucker if it’s the last thing I do," Elias growled. "Stupid heather eyed bastard."

The Beholding helpfully showed him exactly how beautiful those pearly lavender grey eyes were.

Elias spat out a few petals resentfully. He wished Peter could be there to—

No, he didn’t.

Gleefully, the Beholding and the Lonely reminded Elias of how it felt to have Peter hold him, the way he smelled, soft and sweet like a distant pine forest. The bastards were ganging up on him.

Elias dragged himself upright and made slow, bitter progress towards his sofa.

He didn’t want to see Peter again.

Didn’t he?

Swearing under his breath, he curled up on the sofa and coughed into his sleeve. Petals flecked his clothes, and he fell asleep with the taste of bitter flowers on his tongue.

The Lonely wouldn’t leave him alone after that, haunting him with the echo of Peter’s voice, half-remembered glimpses in the early dawn light. Elias became hungry in a way the Eye's chewed-up memories could not satisfy.

Weeks went by without word from Peter. Elias tried to See him, Find him somehow, but he was always hidden beyond the veil of the Forsaken. Every misty morning made his lungs and heart ache until the feelings were one and the same.

The second he felt the cool ocean mist curl around him, scented with salt and honey, the flowers in Elias' chest squeezed tighter in anticipation—this had to be him. Elias stifled the first cough, and the second, but he made the mistake of exhaling immediately after, and that made all the leaves and petals rustle inside him like they had places to be. He doubled over as a handful of soft pink petals forced their way up, leaving him gasping for air.

By the time Peter showed up, Elias had slid unwillingly to the floor, back resting against the wall. He had to keep his breathing slow and even, not to disturb the flowers. Would Peter mind the blood?

"Elias?" The static was like music to his ears.

"I love you, Peter," he rasped, crushing the bloodstained petals in one hand.

"Oh, Elias. That's so sweet of you to say." Peter's hand caressed the side of Elias' face, worn and calloused from so many years at sea.

Elias tried to respond, say something caustic and scathing, yes, perfect, but he started coughing instead, a deep, rib-cracking cough, chlorophyll and pollen and blood. He forced his perspective outwards and Knew the damage from far away, the pain fading to something bearable.

But one touch from Peter and he snapped back into his body, sore throat and heavy lungs.

"How beautiful it is to see you this way," Peter sighed, stroking Elias' face while he struggled to breathe. He gave Elias a fond, warm look, but it was for the way Elias had blood smeared over his face and shirt, a very expensive shirt actually, and the way Elias was feeding the Forsaken. Maybe this had been his endgame after all. "But no one can love me."

"Fuck you," he spat past the ache in his chest.

Peter hummed and pressed an absent kiss to Elias' lips. "And unfortunately, I can’t love you either," he murmured. "Not in the way you want." 

The flowers in his lungs grew with every kiss, and then Peter faded away like early morning fog in the summer sun.

Not long after that, Elias snapped.

He had to sign all the waivers to make sure he knew exactly what he was doing to himself. He explained, patiently, that he didn't even want to love Peter, because Peter was a little bitch who was only good for manipulation and who, if all went according to plan, would be gone soon. Permanently gone. He didn’t go into so much detail, getting arrested at this point would set his plans back by an unacceptable amount, but he felt it was suitably implied. At least everyone knew he was being serious.

The surgeon pitied him, as did all of the staff (he Knew, even if he didn’t want to). They always pitied people like Elias, mostly because of the inherent sadness of a person loving someone who didn't love them back. Except Elias wasn't like the others. He didn't _want_ Peter to love him back. This was all a big mistake, and this was how he would fix it. Put things back on track.

He didn't have an Archivist's healing ability, not to the same degree, but this distraction had to end. And then maybe, just maybe, he could finally resume his planning for the Watcher's Crown.

He watched the surgery at a comfortable distance; like an anatomy lecture from when he went to Oxford. That brought back old memories; but pointedly none of Mordecai Lukas. Obviously none. He didn’t like any of the Lukases. Not one bit.

His first breath free of flowers, scented with antiseptic, tasted wonderful. He didn't feel any different otherwise (didn't he? Wasn't he lighter, happier? What had love felt like?).

But it didn't last longer than a week. Elias' own patron made sure of that, showing him Peter, reminding him of Peter, and all of his emotions started shifting to match the memories. Not into _love_. But… into what, then?

Elias had only mostly healed from the surgery when he felt the familiar brush of flowers inside his lungs, the curl of roots through tissue.

He managed a single "For fuck's sake" before he started coughing.

Blood flecked the palm of his hand.

When the Archivist and his merry band of idiots got Elias arrested, it was practically a relief.

The constant surveillance kept Peter away better than the man’s own tendencies. Basira, however, insisted on turning herself into quite the nuisance. Elias sent her off on a long series of diversions and some errands, although she never found out which was which. At least she never commented on the flowers.

Elias was almost glad she felt like she could punch him in the face. A nice change from the usual pain. She stopped visiting after he was moved to the infirmary, likely because she wasn’t allowed, and he thought he might miss her sad attempts at witty banter.

Biding his time was growing tedious, particularly since he had so little time left. He had half a mind to find another body, but his… _problem_ was sure to follow him. No sense in wasting the meat.

Time ticked away.

As it turned out, Peter didn't make his move a moment too soon.

As soon as Elias saw, he knew he had to follow. He dragged himself upright, made it about halfway there, and collapsed back onto his bed in a breathless haze. He curled in on himself, coughing up a handful of pink and blue petals. This would be more difficult than anticipated, he reflected from a perfectly calm place somewhere outside his body.

Diving back, everything fucking hurt, and he took fifteen minutes to stand up, but he'd at least figured out that all he had to do was take breaks to catch his breath. He clung grimly to the wall.

Getting dressed felt like an insurmountable task, but the thought of showing up in a backless hospital gown—unacceptable. He wasted an hour making himself presentable, made all the more difficult by his clumsy, unwieldy hands. As he made his slow way out of the room, he caught a glimpse of himself reflected in a window. Painfully thin, dark, hollowed eyes, blood dried and fresh flecked over his face and hands and clothes, grey hair hanging lank and greasy over his eyes. He looked like Jon.

Breaking out of prison was easy, but walking down the hallway to actually leave was damn near impossible. He was leaving a trail of blood and petals like some kind of macabre Hansel and Gretel. Well, more macabre than average. Each breath cost him something he was rapidly running out of, making the world spin around him again and again in a blur of color.

Elias leaned heavily against the wall but couldn't sit down no matter how much he wanted to, because if he did, he'd probably never get up again.

He wasn't going to make it outside, much less across London.

"Hello," a dry voice said from behind him.

Elias tried to stand a bit straighter. "You."

The world twisted, and Helen was standing in front of Elias. "You're needed at the Archives. Or, at least, I think you being there would make things much funnier for everyone involved."

"I—" Elias made the mistake of taking a deeper than average breath and coughed without meaning to, petals sticking together in his throat until he was choking, hot tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, spitting out petals and breathing in blood. He collapsed at the Distortion's feet and wheezed for a moment. Several moments. He didn't even have the strength to move his thoughts outwards, into the Eye, where it was safe.

"Hm," Helen said thoughtfully. "Yes, this will be most amusing." She picked him up around the middle like he was a puppy, long fingers slicing his clothes.

He couldn't protest. No matter how much he struggled, on the outside, he meekly permitted her to carry him through a sticky lime green door and into the Archives.

"I don't want anyone to know I was here, and I have a feeling you've still got enough pride that you won't tell anyone I brought you. So… you’re welcome," she teased with a sickening smile. "And don’t forget: I'll be watching, Elias. Try not to disappoint me." Helen smiled and vanished back into her door, leaving him crumpled at the entrance to the Millbank Prison tunnels.

Elias scowled into the floor.

"Elias?" Jon yelped. "I thought you were in prison?" _And dying_ , he didn't add.

How acutely observant of him. "Archivist," he managed to say, although not as disapprovingly as he would have liked.

"Where's Martin?" he demanded.

They both knew the answer to that. Elias gave him a very disappointed look.

Jon scowled and asked, "How do I follow him?"

This would require words. "You—" Elias grit his teeth. "Have to find th—the—" He wheezed and couldn’t manage anything beyond a weak gasp.

"Elias, please, I need to get to wherever he’s gone, you have to tell me how," Jon practically pleaded.

 _Yes, you do have to get there_. Elias reached clumsily for Jon’s hand.

"Er, what do you—um," Jon stuttered, his ears turning a dark shade of pink. Adorable.

The Lonely was still all around them, the echoes of fog and cold distant stars and ships lost at sea. All Jon had to do was reach out for it, but he didn’t know how.

Elias pulled back from the Archivist, fingers scraping at his chest as he struggled to breathe. And the Lonely drew even closer, wrapping around him like a blanket, thick and heavy, leaching the strength from his bones. He grabbed Jon and summoned every last scrap of energy he had to send Jon a single thought. _The path is still here; go fetch_.

Jon jerked backwards and sprawled uncomfortably on the cobblestone floor, blinking owlishly behind his too-large glasses. "Th—thank you?"

Elias blinked, and the Archivist was gone. Maybe he’d fallen asleep. He tried to move, but everything felt so heavy, it almost wasn't worth the effort. His latest stunt was proving to be his last—if he hadn’t been in the Panopticon, the effort probably would have killed him.

The roots of the flowers were digging through his lungs and curling around his heart, the final stage of the disease. He’d be dying soon, so close to his old bodies that it was almost amusing.

Elias tried to sit more comfortably, but every motion made the damn plants dig deeper. The Lonely really was a cruel creature. Either that or Peter was thinking about Elias as mist rolled in from nowhere, curling around Elias’ body, and it smelled just like Peter, felt like Peter. He started to cough again, petals drifting to the floor, and the roots squeezed tighter, and fuck if it didn’t _hurt_ —

Elias pulled himself away, up into the cool indifference of the Beholding, but he kept getting dragged back to the dying thing in the Panopticon, blood and flowers and the taste of yarrow, fog from a faraway ocean.

Then the Eye grabbed ahold of Elias, insisting, _Watch, watch_. It tugged him into the mist of the Forsaken, to a distant sandy shore below a rocky cliff. It could have been anywhere, really.

Below him, there were three tiny figures; two of them seemed to be having an argument. The Eye brought Elias in closer and deposited him right on the beach for easy viewing.

" **Tell me what you’re planning** ," Jon commanded.

"No," Peter growled.

"Don’t struggle, you’ll just make it worse for yourself," Elias said, trying to grab Peter’s arm and passing right through him. "Peter, _stop_."

" **Tell me!** " Jon roared.

"No!" Peter shouted, static and fog swirling around him. Blood trickled from his nose and eyes, shockingly red against the soft greys and blues of the Lonely.

Elias started to panic. "Jon, wait, don’t hurt him—"

The static crashed over the shore like water, and the gaze of the Beholding settled over everything.

Then Peter died.

Elias felt it like a gunshot in his stomach. Like a sword, like fire. He tried to say something, anything, but without the Eye showing him purposefully, _feeding_ off of him like he was just another person to be consumed, he choked and found himself back in the Panopticon, tears in his eyes.

The flowers rotted in his lungs, turning to a thick, foul-smelling sludge.

Elias curled in on himself as he coughed up the dark sludge, the taste bad enough to make him retch. His hands scraped at the floor, leaving deep marks across the old stone. 

After a long minute, he groaned and wiped his mouth clean with his sleeve. He took a deep, shaky breath, tasting the damp, cool air of the Panopticon. The faintest hint of ocean mist lingered on his tongue.

Something hot trickled down his face, and he reached up a hand to see what it was. Tears. Why was he crying? Surely he couldn’t be sad about Peter. This was what he had wanted.

Elias took another deep breath, free of those stupid petals, and another, and another, and another, and fuck, he was hyperventilating, why couldn’t he stop—he sagged against the wall, gasping like his lungs were full of flowers, tears soaking into his shirt. He wasn’t sad, he was fine, this was fine, he couldn’t smell the sea anymore, everything was _fine_.

Elias wrapped his arms around himself.

Everything was fine.

Without warning, the mist descended again, curling from the walls and ceiling like water, and two shapes emerged from the shadows.

Elias sat up, a dizzying wave of hope and concern and anger sweeping over him. Maybe—

"Jon," said Martin, and the disappointment was a physical thing. Martin hugged Jon, and the optics of a small, heavyset man trying to shelter such a tall, spindly one nearly made Elias laugh.

The both of them noticed him not a moment later, expressions turning wary like rabbits too long under the threat of foxes.

"Elias?" Jon asked. 

He tried to school his expression, even a bit, but he knew it was a lost cause. "You got what you wanted, Jon. We both got what we wanted." Without meaning to, he laughed, a crazed, desperate sound. "Exactly as planned. I don’t know if I should thank you or kill you. Maybe both."

Martin grabbed Jon’s sleeve protectively, unsubtly moving between him and Elias. "Jon, we should go—"

Elias was smiling, or maybe crying. "Yes, go. Before I… do something rash." _Spoil all of my hard work_.

It was three weeks before Jon read Elias’s statement. Well, not Elias’, not exactly, but close enough. 

The sky opened up, and a vast eye from somewhere Else gazed upon the land from the clouds.

Was all of this worth it?

Static swept around him, bringing the smell of distant seas and yarrow blossoms, and he felt so acutely lonely that it made his chest hurt (like a certain someone was standing right behind him). Elias smiled.

Maybe not right now, but it would be.

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all should 100% go and see the glass sculpture. It's something


End file.
